Delusion's Story
by BexE
Summary: Fairy tales aren't real. The Evil Queen, the Savior, Snow White, they don't exist. The world is magic free. But what if to Henry, it's all very real? Too real. What if his reality isn't like everyone else's? What if instead of a world ruled by reality, Henry lives in a world ruled by delusion?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Well. This is already different than how I began it, but that's okay. I think. I haven't decided yet. So, we'll see. This starts out similar to how the show begins, but then veers off into its own direction.  
Reviews would be lovely.**

**[insert witty disclaimer here]**

**Delusion's Story**

It was the silence that she noticed. It was always the silence that she noticed. _Always._ It spoke to her, whispered terrible words. Silence told her the truth she didn't want to believe; it told her what she didn't want to know; it told her what she needed to know. It was the complete lack of noise, the total silence that worried her. She stopped for a moment, stopped everything, even breathing. She paused and just listened, checking just to make sure that it was really silence that she was hearing. It was, and panic rose in her chest. Good never followed that silence. She stood up quickly, ran up the stairs. She paused at the closed door, knowing what she would find behind it. Breathing slowly, her hand hovered before her, before the door. She never could prepare herself for what was there and what it meant. She pushed the door open, and was met with nothing. The room was empty. She found exactly what she knew she would, and it would mean exactly what she feared it would. He was gone. Again.

* * *

A boy sat on a bus. He was young, too young to be traveling alone into the city. He sat alone, absorbed in the book that lay on his lap. His eyes never strayed to his surroundings, but rather passed over every inch of each page as if looking for some minute detail. Words and pictures both combined to tell tales of fantasy and of adventure, of good and of evil, of magic and of love. It told tales of _Once Upon a Time._

The boy closed the book as the bus slowed. He would be getting off here.

"That a good book?"

"This? It's more than just a book," he replied. The boy stared intently as the stranger, his eyes serious – challenging – as if he expected her to contradict him. She didn't. He held the book close before tucking it into his bag, and his eyes lingered as it left his sight.

"Boston South Station. Thank you for riding Greyhound." The boy stood at the announcement; he was nearly there. He walked through the station, eyes tracing the sea of faces between the platform and exit. He'd never seen so many faces unrecognizable to him at once. There were more people than he was used to, a lot more.

He knocked on the window of a yellow cab parked on the street, "Do you take credit cards?"

The cab dropped him off at the corner of two roads of which he didn't know the names. It struck him again how unfamiliar the city was to him, how strange it seemed. He smiled up at the building to his left: his destination. Wind cut through his coat, it wouldn't be long until he was warm again. He approached the door, shifting his eyes up to find her window; it was dark. He shrugged, pushed the door open, and walked inside, up the stairs, around the corner. The boy stood before her door, apartment 205. He raised his hand to ring the bell. No answer.

He rang again. No answer.

Again. Still nothing.

He sighed, she must not be home. The boy walked down the stairs and turned back to the street corner. He sat with his back against the building; he'd wait until she returned, never mind the cold.

* * *

There she was: blond, wearing a pink dress. That was her. His eyes followed her every moment. She walked quickly, confidently, pausing for a moment to unlock the door; she paused again, turning around. Her eyes scanned the street behind her, looking for something, for someone as if she knew someone was watching her, but her eyes never met the boy's. She shook her head and disappeared inside without another glance.

The boy stood, but didn't walk to the door; he'd wait a moment, and then follow her up.

He stood again before apartment 205. This time she answered, opening the door and shifting her gaze down: she wasn't expecting him.

Confusion wrote itself across her features, "Uh, can I help you?"

"Are you Emma Swan?" He knew the answer. Yes. This was the woman for which he was looking. Emma Swan.

"Yeah," she confirmed, "Who are you?"

"My name's Henry. I'm your son." Her eyes widened and glanced over him, searching for recognition; she hadn't been expecting that answer. She stood in the door way unmoving, staring at Henry who ducked under her arm into her home and into her life.

"Woah, hey, kid, _kid, _I don't have a son. Where are your parents?" She didn't call Henry by his name.

Henry looked at her and sighed, "Ten years ago, did you give up a baby for adoption?" The expression on Emma's face answered for her. "That was me."

"Give me a minute." She walked away, closing a door behind her. Henry shrugged nonchalantly: this was definitely her. There was no doubt in his mind.

* * *

The woman pushed her hair out of her face and stepped out into the cold air. She almost never found him when he was like this, she had only once before. Once out of so many times. But she had to look, had to find a way to reach him. She walked into the street, starting at every sound, hoping each time he'd be there shivering in the night. Cold she could handle: she knew what to do with cold, it was the more likely possibility she feared. She closed her eyes, that night felt different, colder. There was something different about this. Dread gathered, this wouldn't be like the other times she'd been met with that silence.

* * *

They walked through the gate, up to the house. Mother and son were side by side after ten years of separation. Emma looked up at the house wondering what exactly it was she'd find there. If the kid was right and it was as bad as described, she'd be sending him into the same life she had. Hell. Misery. Though, if the kid was right, then they were all fairy tale characters cursed by an evil queen. She stared at the house hoping it offered a better life that the one she could have given. Her eyes met a figure in the window, a figure whose gaze drifted to hers. The figure, a woman with dark hair, closed her eyes and took a deep breath before turning briskly for the door.

"Henry!" she called out, folding him into her arms. "Are you okay? Where were you? Who is this?" Her eyes focused on Emma with a confusion she was intimately familiar with. It was the same confusion Emma had met earlier that evening, the same confusion she was still holding on to.

Henry wrenched himself away. "She's my real mother." He vanished into the house without another word leaving the two strangers out in the cold.

"I'll check on Henry." Emma hadn't noticed the man standing there.

"You're Henry's birth mother?"

"Yes, Emma Swan."

"I see," she paused, "Regina Mills."

They stood there for a moment in the cold dark saying nothing. Then, "It's none of my business, but something he said –"

"He told you about the book."

"Yes, and his theory. He seemed, well, serious."

"He was serious, Ms. Swan. He was very serious."


	2. Chapter 2

**Well, here's chapter two. I know, took me long enough. I don't really have a reason for that. I'd say exams, but I feel like I can only use that as an excuse if I had been spending my time studying which is something I definitely did not do. So, no excuses. I'll try and have at least one update a week from now on (we'll see how well that works out) - no promises though.**

* * *

**Delusion's Story**

Her words danced through the air, dragging along the silence that had gripped the night. The women stood side by side, alone within themselves, together as strangers.

"He was serious." Emma glanced over at the brunette, even that statement didn't have any sense about it. Emma's eyes wandered as she shifted her balance from one foot to the other.

"It's complicated," Regina spoke again.

Emma nodded, "Not something you want to share with a stranger. Understandable." Regina turned toward the blond, a small smile touching her lips. Her eyes traced the other woman, this Emma; she took her in, watching her son's history avoid staring at anyone thing for too long.

"Actually, it isn't that," she paused, breathing, considering her words, "Well, not entirely. In a way, a stranger would the perfect person to share with – if I were to share at all. They'd have no stake in this, their perspective would be entirely outside. They would know nothing more than what I allowed; there would be no intrusion. Stranger isn't what I object to, it's the particular stranger here. I object to you, Ms. Swan."

Regina eyed the woman next to her, watched the words being processed. Surprise never found its way into the woman's features - she stood motionless: she'd been expecting the dismissal. That was one less thing with which Regina would have to concern herself. Good.

The woman glanced toward Regina, moved away, returned, and left again. She had something to say. Regina fixed the blond with her gaze, waiting for her to speak. She clenched her jaw, turning, "I should go." Regina smiled quickly, nodding – this was good. She never should have been here; this was not her place, never would be.

Regina felt herself move forward, impulsively, "That isn't quite what I meant, Ms. Swan." Regina cleared her throat. _This wasn't her place, _Regina reminded herself. This had nothing to do with her; she was nothing. She had no right to be here; she had no right to have seen any of this, to have known any of this. She should not be here. But this time, right then, she was; she needed to be.

The blond had stopped, waiting, back still turned. "Everything he told you, he believes it, really believes it. That is what you represent – the entire delusion. To him, you are physical evidence that proves the very existence of those thoughts he hears. You are proof that everything he thinks, sees, hears is in fact true," Regina paused again, taking another breath. "I do not know you well enough to object to you personally, though," Regina looked at her again, eyebrows rising, "that may yet be entirely possible. I do, however, object to the reinforcement you bring."

The blond smirked, nodding slowly, "I see. Well. First of all, my name is Emma, not Ms. Swan. Emma. Got that?" She turned back to face Regina, waiting for a response, some sort of acknowledgement that she had in fact just spoken aloud to someone other than herself. Regina stared back at the blond – Emma – giving nothing in form of answer. Emma rolled her eyes, "Second, I'll try not to be too _personally _offended by any of that."

Again they remained in silence. Both women were conscious of the other's presence, both careful not to inadvertently invite the other into private thoughts. This was not something with which one would include a stranger, even though a stranger would be perfect. Another stranger, another time, perhaps.

Regina bit her lip, fought the urge to say something additional. She did not want to encourage conversation with this woman – there was no reason to, not at this immediate interval. Regina forced herself to breath evenly: in and out – repeat. It had to be her, actually her, reality her. Of all the people her son could bring back from his mind, it was _her. _It was this Emma Swan. It was his _real mother_, and it was. This woman, she was in fact his real mother, Regina could see that. She was his history, and he was hers.

Regina sighed, walking back to the house. That was the reason she was here, still here. Emma Swan knew nothing of Henry himself, of Regina, of their lives; she did, however, have distinct knowledge of how he came to be. If there were answers to be found, if there was any hope for understanding, the explanation began with her. Regina needed her here, even if that need was temporary. Regina knew that.

She stopped in front of the door; she had to go inside. She had to. There was nothing more for her to say in this moment. There was nothing more. Regina pushed through the door, meeting the warmth on the other side. Once upon a time, that warmth would have been comforting, something to long for; in that moment, it told her only how cold it truly was.

Regina hesitated on the threshold, faced Emma Swan, looking her in the eyes, and left the door open as she stepped across.

* * *

It was simple. It was. He knew that. He did. The Evil Queen. The Savior. Regina Mills. Emma Swan. Her. His mother. That was everything. That was the truth. That was it.

In his room, alone, he looked through the window, out at them. Henry traced their movements with his eyes. Regina stared at Emma, at his mother, her eyes hard. She hadn't been expecting this. Good. He smiled. Emma turned away, walking back from the house, back from him. Regina said something – he couldn't make out the words – and Emma faced her again. Talking. They were talking. They shouldn't be talking like that. No. Not like that. That wasn't the way it was supposed to be; that wasn't the way it was. No. This was wrong. All wrong.

No.

His eyes fell to his hands, empty.

It was okay. It was okay. It would be okay.

That was why he left without his hands full – without his book. That was why. It was with her, with his mother, Emma, the Savior. It was with her; she'd find it, and she would see. She would. She didn't believe him then, he knew that, he could see that. She didn't understand, not yet. Not yet. She would though. She would see; she would understand – he'd show her. Henry would show her, and she would believe. Emma would believe him. She had to. She was the Savior.

Henry sighed. This hadn't been what he had envisioned. He had never expected her to believe him right away – he wasn't delusional; of course she wouldn't. His eyes trailed back to the window, looking through the glass, watching them – the Evil Queen and the Savior – in the night.

* * *

"Give me a moment." It wasn't a request, rather a command. That wasn't lost on Emma. She looked around: the place was minimalist but – Emma grappled for the word – nice, homey. Emma noticed immediately the differences between this and every other house she'd ever found herself in over the years. It was warm, clearly a home, clearly contained some happy memories; someone, Regina, Emma assumed, obviously cared about the place. It was put together; everything had a place – a home. But it was more than that, more than all of it, and Emma couldn't put her finger on what it was.

The front door opened and closed, startling Emma. Her form straightened forcefully, heart beating quickly; there had been someone else there, someone that was now long gone. There hadn't been anyone here before, only her, Regina, and Henry. Henry. Her eyes locked on the door – he wouldn't have… Emma started in its direction; the man, there had been a man. She hadn't noticed him at first or at all apparently. It must have been him. It must have been: Regina had gone to check on the kid, so it had to have been him, whoever he was. Emma relaxed at that, leaned back into the wall where she'd been standing, went back to appraising everything within her sight.

"Ms. Swan," Regina announced her reentry into the room, "Sorry about that." Emma doubted the sincerity of that apology; she couldn't imagine Regina being _sorry _about much of anything, not the way her voice purred every not.

"Emma."

Regina glanced up at her, "Excuse me?"

"My name. Emma, remember?"

"Ah," Regina smiled stiffly, "yes, that." Neither woman spoke after that. Emma resumed her inspection from her chosen spot leaning against a wall. The women had chosen their placements carefully, putting enough distance between them to dissuade any association; that distance carried its own significance: neither one belonged there with the other. This was never meant to happen.

"Um," Emma started, "He – Henry asleep?"

Regina shook her head, "Not when I checked, pretending."

"I see." Emma hadn't missed the change in the other woman's voice, its formality, its edge. Emma looked away, got the feeling she had strayed into something in which she didn't belong; that feeling was becoming a close friend of hers and getting closer yet.

"It isn't the time for this," Regina declared in that same commanding tone. Emma wasn't to argue with her about it, not that she had been planning to, about this. "Guest room, bathroom," Regina pointed in some vague direction Emma hadn't noticed though she nodded her confirmation all the same. Turning back the way she had come, Regina said, "I'll be upstairs, first room. I trust you won't need anything, Ms. Swan."

And she was gone.

Emma stood alone in the silence; she hadn't agreed to stay, she hadn't even been invited. She hadn't planned on staying, but then, she hadn't planned on hearing that she was a long lost fairy tale character destined to vanquish an evil queen. That had not been part of her plan, not in the slightest. Yet, here she was: Storybrooke, Maine.


End file.
